When Your Dad Borrows Your Car, Just Kill Yourself
By Joe Acton
Remember your first car? Tell the truth, now — which were you more excited about — your very first car, or the most recent one with all the hyzoot stuff on it. Me too. First one will always be the most exciting.
My first car was a 1960 Valiant. Okay, so we're not talking a muscle car here, but The Other Idiots and I (that's what my dad called the three guys I hung out with — The Other Idiots. You know, the question your dad always had for you when you came in at 11:30 p.m. instead of 9:30 p.m. like you promised, "Where have you and The Other Idiots been?") spent some time and really tricked it out.
You might be asking yourself why would you want to spend a bunch of perfectly good money to fix up a 1960 Valiant — a car trapped in the paradox of its own name. To cruise for girls of course. Why else?
Now, the concept of cruising for girls is, and always has been, an exercise in futility. We all know that now. But back then it seemed absolutely the most logical thing in the world to believe that if we really tricked out a four-door, underpowered, lime green economy car, girls would really go for us.
Never occurred to us that if any girls really were attracted to us because of the car, they'd have to be just as dumb as we were, thus defeating the entire reason for cruising anyway, since none of the four of us had even the remotest idea what we were going to do in the unlikely event that any girls would be interested in us because of the car.
I mean we were so dumb that when we would pull up next to a car load of cruising girls, none of us wanted to look to see if they were looking. Remember this conversation in your car — oh, come on — it's happened in every car load of teenagers that ever cruised: "Are they cute? I don't know. Well, are they looking? I don't know, I haven't looked. Well look and see if they're looking. I'm not looking, you look. I'm driving, you look. I don't want to look — what if they look while I'm looking and see me? Then smile at them. What if they don't smile back? Never mind, the light's changed, we'll go around again and try to catch them at the next light."
One of The Other Idiots had an older brother who tried to tell us that what we really needed to do was get a Rambler seat for the front because it had a seat back adjustment that let it go all the way back. Hubba Hubba.
Someone forgot to explain the Hubba Hubba part to me because I thought it was a great idea for fishing since we could catch some zzzz's in the car after some early morning casting.
So we did it. Found a Rambler seat and installed it in a 1960 Valiant. We were borderline cool and knew it. Add a steering wheel cover and pop-up speed knob (remember that little gizmo with the white knob that attached to the steering wheel so you could turn the car while you had your arm around your date?) and were almost too cool. Seat covers and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror rounded out The Green Machine.
Things were okay until I threw away the gearshift knob and replaced it with a hockey puck (as my mom said, "I guess it's okay — I'm just glad you don't play football). Then The Other Idiots started to complain that the gear shift knob would "get in the way" at the drive-in. Never mind that none of us had ever been to the drive-in with anybody except The Other Three Idiots. It was the principle of the matter. Had to be prepared. Never know.
So, The Idiot With The Big Brother brought him over and The Five Idiots went to work on the problem. The solution turned out to be relatively simple. Since the car was a three speed floor shift, all we had to do was loosen the linkage a bit. With the linkage loosened and the car in neutral, all you had to do was push the gearshift forward just so and — bingo — it pushed forward onto the floor. Out of the way. Hubba Hubba.
Okay. So we did that too. By all accounts — at least between The Four Idiots — we had The Coolest Cruising Machine In Town. And then my dad borrowed the car. And then life, at least as I knew it, ceased to exist shortly thereafter.
Dad's car was in the shop and he and my mom were taking her boss and his wife out to dinner. Didn't mean much to me I was busy listening to the Coke Show wondering if anyone was going to dedicate a song to me, when he told me he was borrowing my car for the night.
When you're sixteen you don't pay much attention to what your parents do for a living and the fact that my mom was up for a promotion was equally lost on me. But that's why, it was explained to me in great detail later, they were taking "The Boss" out to dinner.
And because of all the yelling and screaming later, I was never sure of the exact order of events, but near as I can figure it went down something like this: Mom and dad picked up The Boss and his wife at their house. Before they go they have a couple of drinks to start out the night. So far so good.
They head out for the restaurant with small talk dropping all over the car like the new blanket of snow that was covering the road as they drove. Dad's being extra nice to the guy — laughing at all his lame jokes— even though he doesn't like him, because mom wants the raise. So far so good.
Dad slows down for a snow plow in front of them, shifts down as they go around and tries to shift back up to third. But to get to third from second you have to go through neutral — and since he was trying to do it quickly to get around the plow he shoved the gearshift forward, hard. And just like we'd engineered it to do, it came out and fell onto the floor underneath the dashboard.
So now the snow plow that they've just passed is bearing down on them, they're coasting in neutral and Dad can't find the gearshift. Thinking quickly he grabs for the seat lever to push the seat back so he can grab the gearshift.
What I forgot to tell him before he left for dinner was that the old seat lever was now the new seat back lever.
Dad pulled it and the seat back, along with he and mom, collapsed into the laps of Mr. and Mrs. Boss in the back seat. With mom and dad looking at the ceiling and not the road, it was a lot easier for them to spin out and drive into the ditch right in front of the snow plow. The plow, of course, couldn't stop in time and drove past them burying the car in a snowbank of freshly plowed snow.
I don't how the Cleaver's would have handled this but after my Dad found out that I couldn't be forced to join one of the armed services the actual restriction only lasted six months. Besides, mom got the raise.
But, I had to lose the Rambler seat. Fix the gearshift. Throw away the speed-knob. Pitch the dice. Got to keep the puck though — still have it.
Must be true, insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
Remember your first car? Tell the truth, now — which were you more excited about — your very first car, or the most recent one with all the hyzoot stuff on it. Me too. First one will always be the most exciting.
My first car was a 1960 Valiant. Okay, so we're not talking a muscle car here, but The Other Idiots and I (that's what my dad called the three guys I hung out with — The Other Idiots. You know, the question your dad always had for you when you came in at 11:30 p.m. instead of 9:30 p.m. like you promised, "Where have you and The Other Idiots been?") spent some time and really tricked it out.
You might be asking yourself why would you want to spend a bunch of perfectly good money to fix up a 1960 Valiant — a car trapped in the paradox of its own name. To cruise for girls of course. Why else?
Now, the concept of cruising for girls is, and always has been, an exercise in futility. We all know that now. But back then it seemed absolutely the most logical thing in the world to believe that if we really tricked out a four-door, underpowered, lime green economy car, girls would really go for us.
Never occurred to us that if any girls really were attracted to us because of the car, they'd have to be just as dumb as we were, thus defeating the entire reason for cruising anyway, since none of the four of us had even the remotest idea what we were going to do in the unlikely event that any girls would be interested in us because of the car.
I mean we were so dumb that when we would pull up next to a car load of cruising girls, none of us wanted to look to see if they were looking. Remember this conversation in your car — oh, come on — it's happened in every car load of teenagers that ever cruised: "Are they cute? I don't know. Well, are they looking? I don't know, I haven't looked. Well look and see if they're looking. I'm not looking, you look. I'm driving, you look. I don't want to look — what if they look while I'm looking and see me? Then smile at them. What if they don't smile back? Never mind, the light's changed, we'll go around again and try to catch them at the next light."
One of The Other Idiots had an older brother who tried to tell us that what we really needed to do was get a Rambler seat for the front because it had a seat back adjustment that let it go all the way back. Hubba Hubba.
Someone forgot to explain the Hubba Hubba part to me because I thought it was a great idea for fishing since we could catch some zzzz's in the car after some early morning casting.
So we did it. Found a Rambler seat and installed it in a 1960 Valiant. We were borderline cool and knew it. Add a steering wheel cover and pop-up speed knob (remember that little gizmo with the white knob that attached to the steering wheel so you could turn the car while you had your arm around your date?) and were almost too cool. Seat covers and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror rounded out The Green Machine.
Things were okay until I threw away the gearshift knob and replaced it with a hockey puck (as my mom said, "I guess it's okay — I'm just glad you don't play football). Then The Other Idiots started to complain that the gear shift knob would "get in the way" at the drive-in. Never mind that none of us had ever been to the drive-in with anybody except The Other Three Idiots. It was the principle of the matter. Had to be prepared. Never know.
So, The Idiot With The Big Brother brought him over and The Five Idiots went to work on the problem. The solution turned out to be relatively simple. Since the car was a three speed floor shift, all we had to do was loosen the linkage a bit. With the linkage loosened and the car in neutral, all you had to do was push the gearshift forward just so and — bingo — it pushed forward onto the floor. Out of the way. Hubba Hubba.
Okay. So we did that too. By all accounts — at least between The Four Idiots — we had The Coolest Cruising Machine In Town. And then my dad borrowed the car. And then life, at least as I knew it, ceased to exist shortly thereafter.
Dad's car was in the shop and he and my mom were taking her boss and his wife out to dinner. Didn't mean much to me I was busy listening to the Coke Show wondering if anyone was going to dedicate a song to me, when he told me he was borrowing my car for the night.
When you're sixteen you don't pay much attention to what your parents do for a living and the fact that my mom was up for a promotion was equally lost on me. But that's why, it was explained to me in great detail later, they were taking "The Boss" out to dinner.
And because of all the yelling and screaming later, I was never sure of the exact order of events, but near as I can figure it went down something like this: Mom and dad picked up The Boss and his wife at their house. Before they go they have a couple of drinks to start out the night. So far so good.
They head out for the restaurant with small talk dropping all over the car like the new blanket of snow that was covering the road as they drove. Dad's being extra nice to the guy — laughing at all his lame jokes— even though he doesn't like him, because mom wants the raise. So far so good.
Dad slows down for a snow plow in front of them, shifts down as they go around and tries to shift back up to third. But to get to third from second you have to go through neutral — and since he was trying to do it quickly to get around the plow he shoved the gearshift forward, hard. And just like we'd engineered it to do, it came out and fell onto the floor underneath the dashboard.
So now the snow plow that they've just passed is bearing down on them, they're coasting in neutral and Dad can't find the gearshift. Thinking quickly he grabs for the seat lever to push the seat back so he can grab the gearshift.
What I forgot to tell him before he left for dinner was that the old seat lever was now the new seat back lever.
Dad pulled it and the seat back, along with he and mom, collapsed into the laps of Mr. and Mrs. Boss in the back seat. With mom and dad looking at the ceiling and not the road, it was a lot easier for them to spin out and drive into the ditch right in front of the snow plow. The plow, of course, couldn't stop in time and drove past them burying the car in a snowbank of freshly plowed snow.
I don't how the Cleaver's would have handled this but after my Dad found out that I couldn't be forced to join one of the armed services the actual restriction only lasted six months. Besides, mom got the raise.
But, I had to lose the Rambler seat. Fix the gearshift. Throw away the speed-knob. Pitch the dice. Got to keep the puck though — still have it.
Must be true, insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.